


A Distinctive Way of Riding

by treefrogie84



Category: Leverage, Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Stanford Era (Supernatural), mechanical bulls, post-Moreau, pre-Leverage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:29:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84
Summary: They're killing time waiting for one of Dean's contacts to show up-- hustling pool, drinking, generally being young and stupid. The mechanical bull in the center of the bar is calling Eliot's name, trying to get him and Dean both up on its back.AKA: the one where they ride the bull and then each other.
Relationships: Eliot Spencer/Dean Winchester
Comments: 15
Kudos: 50





	A Distinctive Way of Riding

**Author's Note:**

> This has been languishing in my WIPs folder since shortly after Regarding Dean aired. I finally finished it up when they announced Christian Kane was going to show up and here we are.
> 
> Many many thanks to [FPwoper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FPwoper/pseuds/FPwoper) for the beta and to [Foop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FormidablePassion/pseuds/FormidablePassion) for the cheerleading.

The bartender slides a beer across the counter, still capped, and takes the cash Eliot hands him in return before rushing to the other end of the bar. There’s a loud whoop behind him and Eliot turns, twisting off the bottle cap to watch whatever is happening next.

Dean’s… drunk, but not as drunk as he’s acting, his eyes a little too sharp to actually be three sheets to the wind. None of the guys surrounding him can tell though, willingly laying down their money on the rails of the pool table as Dean misses easy shot after easy shot.

It’s a simple hustle, for all that Dean is a master of it.

Eliot nods slightly when Dean glances up to meet his eyes-- the guys Dean’s playing ain’t anything he can’t handle-- before looking around the bar again. They’ve been sitting in the bar for three days waiting for Dean’s contact, watching the crowds wax and wane with the football games on TV but never actually accomplishing what they’re here for.

Another group tumbles into the bar, bringing a blast of cold air into the overheated bar. Eliot suppresses the shiver that tries to break out and takes another sip of his beer. He’s drawing attention, attention he can’t afford, even in a place like this, so he pushes away from the bar to wander towards the pool table and Dean.

He’s not in a hurry, Dean has his marks well in hand, but they’re still early enough in the evening that a bit of salting won’t go amiss. Eliot meets Dean’s eyes and tilts his head slightly, waiting for Dean’s signal.

Dean lets his opponent-- a tall stringy guy, barely old enough to drink the beer in his hand-- take his first shot before nodding Eliot over.

Eliot’s hand lands heavily on Dean’s shoulder, the other balancing on the rail of the table. “Are you… that’s the room money, jackass!”

“Iz fine,” Dean slurs. “I’m not drunk.”

“Sure you’re not.” Eliot sighs, invisibly lifting a couple of the fifties from the bundle Skinny left on the rail. “If we end up sleeping in the car tonight, I’m taking it out of your ass.”

Dean sneers, surprise flashing through his eyes before it’s hidden behind the drunk act. “I’m good, dude. Relax.”

Eliot huffs angrily, before stepping away and leaning against the wall nearby. Skinny’s friends don’t seem the sort to cause trouble, and are definitely too drunk to notice that they’re being hustled, so Eliot can just enjoy watching Dean’s ass and the stretch of his body over the table.

He’d like to stretch Dean over the table, see what other ball games they can play.

Instead, he watches Dean fondle his pool cue behind Skinny and his friends and make practically obscene faces while he’s taking a drink of his beer. He waggles his ass in Eliot’s general direction every time he’s on that side of the table. It’s all Eliot can do to not laugh, or, better yet, reach over and see if that ass is as firm as it looks.

Dean wins the game, after keeping things tied for long enough Skinny chalks it up to luck. Skinny’s friends even buy another round of drinks when it’s done.

Seated at a table in a quiet corner, Dean raises an eyebrow. “Still gonna take that truck nap out on my ass?”

“ _Of_ your ass.” Eliot smirks. “And it depends on how the rest of this evening goes.”

Dean’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline, choking on a sip of his beer. “How--”

“I mean, you’re out of marks for pool, which sucks. But the bull… That I’d love to see you on.”

“I uh…” Dean swallows. “What about Slim and his friends? Figured you’d want to stay quiet until Caleb gets here.”

“Right now, they’re waiting for their turn on the bull.” A loud whoop carries over the din that surrounds them. “And they’re doing a shit job at it.”

“How the fuck can you tell? You can’t see jack from over here.”

Eliot shrugs. “I spotted their names earlier on the list. And the thumps carry, even in this.” He waves his hand around. It’s not actually that loud for a roadhouse, but there’s enough ambient noise to cause problems.

“You ride?” Dean asks curiously. “I’d like to see that.”

“We can arrange that.” Eliot smirks, leaning forward enough to brush Dean’s shoulder with his own. It’s his turn to run a delicate finger along the mouth of his beer bottle, watching Dean’s eyes dilate in the neon lights. They’re still feeling each other out, but weeks on the road together have gotten them this far.

Dean grins, looks up with some expression Eliot’s afraid to look at too closely. “Any chance you got a hat for that ride?”

“Not for that one. Left it back in Oklahoma.”

A sudden burst of laughter behind them breaks the moment. Dean flinches at the harsh laughter, eyes darting around the crowd before settling back down. Eliot watches him do it, but says nothing. It’s not a queer bar, it’s a roadhouse somewhere in Montana, and they’ve been toeing the line of what won’t get their asses kicked all night.

Eliot has no problem with that-- he’s been worse, seen worse, done worse than a couple of truckers taking exception to where he chooses to stick his dick. Dean though… this is his world, where he grew up and where he finds his jobs. Being known as queer might be a step too far.

Dean relaxes minutely, settling back into his chair, and raises a questioning eyebrow at Eliot. “What else did you leave in Oklahoma? A girl?”

“A whole mess of blood and a horse that deserved better.” Eliot says shortly, with more heat than the question deserves. “The girl’s in Kentucky.”

Dean huffs and nods, doesn’t say anything else. After a couple of minutes, he raises a hand in response to someone Eliot doesn’t see and ducks away from the table.

Eliot sighs, watching the crowd swirl and settle into new patterns. Dean deserves more trust than he’s giving him, especially after everything that’s happened. Eliot runs his fingers through his hair-- it’s getting shaggy, longer than the army or Damien ever would have allowed, longer than he ever thought he’d like it-- and abandons the table and his beer before making his way over to the sign up sheet for the mechanical bull.

He claims the next two available slots for him and Dean and slouches over to the bar.

Dean’s standing at one end, deep in conversation with a guy only a few years older than they are, thirty at the upper end and already balding, wearing the same near uniform everyone else. That at least he’s comfortable with-- jeans, boots, and work shirts are the same the world over-- even if it is a long way from the suits and ties he’s spent the past few years living with.

Eliot can barely hear Dean and his friend over the crowd, even from only a few feet away, but he can read lips well enough to figure out that Dean’s gotten the information they’re here for, and possibly made a couple other deals beside given the amount of cash he’s forking over.

Shaking his head, he forces himself to focus on the bar, ordering another beer when the bartender gets around to him.

“Caleb, this is Eliot.” Dean’s hand twists Eliot around to face the guy.

“Hey, man,” Caleb says. “You keeping this one out of trouble?”

Dean’s practically bouncing as he takes a step back. “Caleb’s been around _forever_.”

“Not forever, but longer than you,” Caleb shoots back.

Eliot takes a slow drink of his beer. “Pretty sure he’s keeping me out of trouble.” It’s not a lie, precisely, but it does minimize what they’ve been doing the past couple of months, since Sean Mills dropped Eliot off at a scrapyard on the edge of town and told him to make himself useful while relearning how to be a civilian.

Turns out, no one really appreciates the half-feral asshole in the guestroom pulling a knife on a toddler. Especially not the woman running for sheriff or her retired military husband.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Dean says, knocking into his shoulder. “You took care of that ghoul just fine the other day.”

“After you’d already shot it twice.”

Caleb leans back and laughs. “Don’t feel too bad. John’s had this one hunting since he was, what? Six?”

Dean’s eyes go dark for a split second before laughing, reaching around to grab his beer. “Something like that, yeah.”

Caleb must have caught part of it, because he drains his beer, clapping them both on the shoulder. “You boys have fun. I’m gonna hit the head and then the motel. Let me know when you’re ready for pick up, Dean.”

“Yeah. We’re in the same place, so probably morning.”

Caleb nods and leaves.

“Friend of yours?” Eliot asks.

Dean shrugs. “Close enough. I trust him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Ain’t none of my business as long as he isn’t shooting me.” Eliot deliberately lets his accent slip through, enough to relax Dean.

Dean nods, looking troubled, before he shrugs it off. “Think we got enough time to sucker someone else into a game?”

The loudspeaker overhead crackles with something that might be Eliot’s name. Grinning, he hands Dean his beer. “We can do so much better than that.”

* * *

Eliot swaggers through the crowd, drawing Dean after him like a magnet. Almost everything the man does draws Dean like a magnet, honestly.

Watching him swing a leg over the fiberglass back, Dean swallows harshly before draining one of the beers. The judges give Eliot a couple seconds to get settled, locking one hand around the pommel and drawing his legs up to grip the sides before starting the ride and the clock.

Eliot’s thighs shift with the bull, keeping him centered on its back as it rocks back and forth and starts to spin. Eliot’s jaw tenses as one arm comes up to balance him, his legs continuing to grip tightly. Dean can’t look away, mesmerized by Eliot’s… everything.

The ride doesn’t last very long, but more than long enough to blow the other times on the scoreboard out of the water.

Jesus fuck, he even lands the dismount, boots landing solidly on the floor and sauntering over coolly.

Dean blindly holds out the beer in his hand. “That was… uh. That was awesome.”

Eliot smirks over the rim of his glass. “Figured fair’s fair. Got to watch you with the pool table.”

Dean inhales sharply and nods. “Right, that’s…” the exact opposite of smooth is what he is.

Eliot lifts an eyebrow, still smirking. “C’mon, Winchester. Spit it out.”

The hesitation that’s been plaguing Dean since they left Sioux Falls evaporates. Glancing around to check that they’re not going to be overheard, he leans forward a bit. “Hot. It was fuckin’ hot.”

Eliot’s eyes dance in amusement. “Nice to know my skills are appreciated.” Reaching over, he pulls Dean’s beer out of his hand. “You’re up next.”

“What? I--”

“It’s not that hard. You’ve taken down werewolves in your boxers. You can do this, can’t you?”

Dean scowls at the scoreboard before nodding. “Don’t drink my beer.”

The thing is, Dean knows how to do this. There’s not many common sports or activities you can do in a bar for money that he doesn’t know. But the bull with the spinning and bucking always feels like work in a way pool or darts never do, feels like he’s getting tossed around by a ghost or whatever creature he’s hunting.

The guy running the board makes a hurry up gesture and Dean nods. Leaning forward, he murmurs, “Best time tops,” in Eliot’s ear before sauntering over to the bull and hopping on.

He starts slow, rocking back and forth with the bull, before it abruptly twists under him, diving forward and turning. Digging his knees in, Dean tightens his grip on the ropes and forcibly relaxes his upper body, letting himself be flung around.

He knows how to put on a show, leaving off the fancy tricks he’s learned and riding clean. He’s almost got it when the bull jerks up and left while spinning right, forcing Dean off balance. Frantically trying to regain it, his rope hand loosens and then somehow-- he doesn’t even catch the move that bucks him-- he’s slumped against the pads, his head spinning.

Blinking rapidly, he watches his time flash up on the board without it making sense before climbing to his feet.

Eliot passes him a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face, eyes intent on Dean’s score, before he smirks triumphantly. “Guess I really am better at this than you are.”

Glancing up at the board, two hundredths of a second separate their scores. “We already knew you were a good ride,” Dean blurts out, shoving the rag into his pocket. “You wanna get out of here?”

Eliot’s eyes dart around before he nods. “Meet you at the car.” Patting Dean’s shoulder, he pushes past, heading towards the back without another word.

Shrugging, Dean collects their winnings-- fifty bucks isn’t much, but nothing to be sneezed at-- and pays their tab before leaving.

Eliot is waiting at the Impala, leaning against the front quarter panel in move he’d damn well better hope won’t scratch the damn paint.

Dean keeps sneaking little glances at Eliot on the drive back to the motel, more obvious than he’d been all week, but he’s driving after all. And Dad’ll have his hide if he wrecks the Impala, even if it’s in service of getting laid.

 _Especially_ if it’s in service of getting laid.

“Dean. Watch the road,” Eliot orders when Dean swerves again. “You’re over the legal limit and you’ve got a trunk full of guns.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not trying to focus while--” he breaks off, suddenly aware that what he wants to say is far too mushy.

Fortunately, they pull into the motel parking lot before he can embarrass himself any further. Their room is in the middle of one of the wings, so he deftly backs into the spot to the left of their room-- the better for urgent midnight escapes.

He stays a respectable five feet away from Eliot while grabbing the six pack of beer from the back seat, and a bottle of whiskey from the trunk before following Eliot into the room.

Dropping the beer on the table, Dean’s in the process of stripping off his jacket when Eliot stops him. Cupping his face, Eliot kisses him firmly, experimentally. Dean groans into his mouth, struggling to get his hands free of the jacket so he can wrap himself around Eliot’s compact warmth.

Eliot’s hands drop from Dean’s face, running down his arms to pull the jacket free, tossing it somewhere towards the table.

Snorting, Dean cups Eliot’s face in return, deepening the kiss. Blindly, he lets Eliot push him backwards, fetching up against the door. Dropping his hands, he pushes at Eliot’s shoulders, trying to drag his jacket off.

Eliot moans into his mouth, shrugging leather off and tossing it across the table. Holding Dean against the door, Eliot reaches over, flips the lock and the chain, before diving back in. They make out for… an absurdly long time, eventually gravitating to the bed.

Yanking at Eliot’s shirt, Dean barely gets it pulled out of his jeans before Eliot’s hands stop him. “You don’t--”

“You really think a few scars are gonna bother me?” Dean snorts, slipping a hand under Eliot’s shirt to curve across his ribs. “We’ve been sharing a room for weeks-- I know what your body looks like, man.”

Eliot lifts an eyebrow and Dean shivers. “You’ve been lookin’?”

“I’m not blind,” Dean points out, stretching forward again to kiss Eliot firmly. “If you didn’t want me to see, you wouldn’t have left the bathroom without a shirt.”

“Dean--”

Backing off, Dean sits up. “If you’re not cool with this--”

Eliot wraps a hand in Dean’s shirt, dragging him back down. “Didn’t say nothing about that. Just wanted to warn ya.”

Dean rolls his eyes before stripping off his own t-shirt and waiting for Eliot to do the same. When the white shirt finally does come off, Dean can see why Eliot was hesitant. Most of the scars aren’t bad-- the sort of thing that anyone who makes a living using their body as a weapon has-- but there’s a few that make Dean’s eyes widen. Leaning over, he kisses a jagged scar, still fresh and pink, that runs across Eliot’s shoulder and down. “Got lucky with that one.”

“Damn near lost my arm,” Eliot agrees, spreading his own hand across an old claw mark below Dean’s ribs. “Bear?”

“I wish,” Dean snorts. “Fucking chupacabra nearly gutted me. Sam--” Shaking his head, he cuts himself off. “Took me two weeks to get back to work.”

Eliot frowns, mouth opening-- probably wants to point out that he should have been off for closer to three months-- before snapping it closed and pulling Dean closer. “Enough of that.” Kissing Dean deeply, he starts to roll them over before stopping.

“What?” Dean asks hazily.

“Boots.”

Snorting, Dean pushes upright, yanking at his laces and throwing his boots towards his bag in the corner. Watching Eliot struggle with his boots, Dean kneels behind him on the bed, pushing his hair to the side and kissing his neck. Eliot twitches in his arms, but doesn’t tell him to stop, so Dean keeps going, kissing his way down Eliot’s spine until he can’t reach any further down.

Eliot flips around, pushing Dean down on the bed and straddling his thighs. “You ready for this, Winchester?”

Grinning up at him, Dean undoes Eliot’s belt and jeans, dipping his fingers into the slit of Eliot’s boxers. Eliot groans above him, his eyes fluttering shut as Dean pulls his dick out. Licking a stripe up his palm, Dean wraps his hand around Eliot and jacks him a couple of times, holding onto his thigh with his free hand.

Falling forward, Eliot captures Dean in a kiss, bracing himself above him with one hand while the other struggles to get his jeans off. Dean wraps his arm around Eliot, pulling him close as he rolls them over and slithers down the bed.

Jerking Eliot’s jeans past the curve of his ass, Dean smirks up at Eliot’s startled “Fuck!”

“You cool with this?” Dean asks, sliding off the bed and reaching for his bag. Digging through it, he pulls condoms and lube from a side pocket and tosses them onto the foot of the bed.

“Yes,” Eliot sputters. “Fuck.”

“Getting there.” Dean smirks, pulling Eliot’s pants the rest of the way off and kicking off his own before climbing back onto the bed. Dean presses himself into Eliot’s side, dropping one of the condoms on his chest and stealing a kiss. “Open one of those.”

Spilling a small amount of lube into the palm of his hand, he wraps his hand around Eliot’s dick and slicks him up before rolling the condom down his length. Tilting his head, he looks at it for a few seconds.

“You gonna--”

Dean cuts Eliot off, sucking the head of his dick into his mouth. He bobs his head a few times, getting the condom slick. Vaguely, he feels Eliot’s hand come up to rest on his head, but nothing else happens, so he leaves it.

It takes a couple minutes to figure out what Eliot responds to best, but eventually he gets it, jacking what he can’t fit in his mouth with one hand, minimal suction while his tongue wiggles against the base of the head.

Eliot isn’t precisely petting him, but he’s not trying to control things either, just resting a hand on Dean’s cheek, groaning and babbling something that Dean can’t pick up. “Dean, Dean, fuck, shit.”

Dean meets Eliot’s eyes with a smirk, pulling off. “You okay?”

“Won’t be if you don’t stop,” Eliot growls. “I won that bet after all.”

“Yeah, you did.” Dean snorts, climbing back onto the bed and stretching out. He gives his own dick a few pulls, coming back to full hardness while Eliot tries to get his breathing under control. “Hurry up, cowboy,” he orders cockily. “We don’t got all night.”

Reaching for the lube and condoms, Eliot grins. “This is not the part you want to rush.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dean whines.

Eliot chuckles, dragging Dean down the bed so his ass is right on the edge. He rolls a condom down Dean’s cock with one hand before swallowing him in one fell swoop.

Dean shouts, almost distracted from a lube slick finger prodding at his ass. This part always sucks, not matter the partner or what they do. He squirms slightly, and one of Eliot’s hands tightens on Dean’s hip, holding him still.

One finger becomes two and suddenly Eliot’s fingers brush over his prostate, sending lighting up Dean’s spine. Eliot pulls off his cock and smirks up at Dean, passing his fingertip over it again and again.

Dean swears, his legs falling open. Scrabbling for his cock, he jerks himself off while Eliot plays within his ass. He’s almost there, right on the edge of coming, when Eliot pulls his fingers free.

Leaning down, Eliot kisses him, his tongue invading Dean’s mouth.

The cap of the lube clicks closed before landing with a dull thud somewhere around Dean’s head. Whining, Dean strains upwards, trying to follow Eliot as he backs away, before flopping back onto the bed.

The blunt head of Eliot’s cock presses against Dean’s ass. Breathing out, he tries to relax, greedily wrapping his hands around Eliot’s arms to pull him closer.

Eliot stops for a few seconds, until Dean whines for him to keep going. Sliding the rest of the way home, he chuckles at Dean’s desperate wail before leaning forward, hovering over him to run a hand up Dean’s side, flicking his thumb quickly over Dean’s nipple.

Dean gasps and presses his chest into Eliot’s hand.

Eliot starts slow, dragging his cock back and forth until Dean growls, “Get on with it.”

Snorting, Eliot kisses his way along Dean’s jaw, biting lightly at his neck, pulling out almost completely. Slamming back home, he presses deep, pistoning his hips deeply.

Dean keens. “Oh, fuck, El--” before his voice breaks.

“Hold on to your hat, Winchester,” Eliot murmurs, pulling Dean closer and getting one leg over his arm to help with the angle. Dean grabs his dick, still slick with saliva, and pulls at it, trying to find the rhythm. A few uncoordinated movements later, he finds it, his hand sliding over hot flesh while Eliot presses him into the mattress.

“So close, so fucking close.” Eliot’s eyes cross and he bites his lip, hips stuttering to a stop and falling forward. Wrapping his hand around Dean’s, he rubs his thumb at Dean’s slit and the head of Dean’s cock.

Dean’s lungs tighten, his breath coming short, his orgasm punching out of him.

Eliot slumps to the side, breathing heavily. Staring blindly at the ceiling, Dean wipes his hand on the sheets before relaxing into the mattress. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Eliot mutters, flopping onto his back. “Give me a sec-- we need to clean up.”

Dean pats his shoulder absently before struggling to sit up with a wince. “I got it. Deal with--” he waves vaguely.

It takes far more effort than it should to climb to his feet, his knees going unexpectedly wobbly when he rolls off the bed.

Filling one of the cheap plastic cups with water, Dean gulps it down and flips on the shower. By the time it’s warmed up, Eliot has stumbled to his feet and over to the sink, stealing the cup away from Dean and downing his own water.

Dean almost wishes the shower stall was big enough for both of them-- Eliot somehow looks more fuckable now, his hair all mused and a hickey forming below his collarbone-- but it’s barely big enough for one of them. He showers quickly, rinsing everything off before trading Eliot.

He’s pulling a clean pair of boxers on when Eliot emerges from the shower. Eliot glances at him and nods, crossing the room to his bag and pulling out fresh underwear of his own before pulling on a t-shirt to go along with them. Taking the hint, Dean does the same thing, dragging on a Zepp shirt before glancing at the disaster they made of his bed.

Pulling the sheets back to rights and tossing Eliot’s shirt towards his bag, Dean piles the pillows together to use as a backrest and flips on the TV. “Sweet, Dr. Sexy.”

Eliot glances at the TV and laughs. “Is he really wearing cowboy boots? That wouldn’t last more than half a shift.”

“They’re comfortable,” Dean points out defensively, settling in.

“They’re also slick as snot on linoleum and can’t be sanitized.” Eliot hmms, tilting his head. “It is a pretty distinctive look, I’ll give you that.”

“They’re sexy. That’s what makes him Dr. Sexy.”

Eliot snorts, grabbing his book and settling in on his own bed. “Whatever you say, kid. You’ve just got a thing.”

“Like you wouldn’t bang him.”

“I try not to let my dick make that kind of decision anymore.” Eliot shrugs.

“That story got anything to do with why you ended up at Bobby’s?”

“Maybe,” Eliot says.

Dean raises an eyebrow-- maybe is as good as a yes, and Eliot knows it-- but doesn’t say anything. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, then Dean won’t make him.

They finish the episode before Dean flips off the light, rolling over to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is, kinda, a prequel to [The Renegade Job](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9564434), so if you want more, that's where i'm going to send you. I've got a few more fics with these two in progress, but they're slow going, so I have no idea when they're going to get published.


End file.
